Shadowsinger (31 page)

West-Southwest of Nesalia, Neserea

At the sound of the drums, and the players, the Maitre nods and steps outside his tent into darkness of the night. He glances upward, into a clear and cold sky where Darksong is at its zenith, a red point of light amid the spray of white stars.

His eyes drop to the large tent to his left, its front panels open to allow the spellsong and accompaniment to fill the night. He listens intently to the two matched voices, the players, and the deep bass of the drums.

As the spellsong ends, a single bright chord echoes through the darkness, unheard except by those who can sense the manipulation of the harmonies.

The Maitre nods, a small smile of satisfaction upon his lips.

Abruptly, the tent where the two Sea-Priests and players had performed flares into a brilliant orange-white light, searing the Maitre's vision into momentary blindness. A dull ringing chord, almost leaden, follows the burst of intense flame.

After blotting the involuntary tears from his eyes, the Maitre takes three steps forward, then stops. Ignoring his blurred vision, he stares at the flaming pyre that had been a tent holding drummers and players. So swiftly has the sorcery struck that there have not even been screams or other sounds.

“The bitch! The murdering bitch!” The words are scarcely more than a whisper, for all their vehemence. “How? She had no wards.”

“Maitre?” A tall and young Sea-Priest, his jacket half-fastened, hurries up to the older man. “Are you all right?”

“I am fine, jerClayne.” The Maitre's words are cold, almost hissed.

“I am most sorry, ser. I did not mean…”

“It is not you,” the Maitre replies.

“Fire! Fire!” The cry rings through the camp.

Figures in white appear from everywhere.

“Buckets! A chain from the stream!”

The Maitre nods as the lancers swiftly form up and begin the effort to contain the flames blazing into the night sky.

“Do you know…?” JerClayne breaks off his inquiry, his eyes turning back toward the pillar of flame.

“The Sorceress Protector. She has much to answer for. Much.”

“She did that?”

“It could be no other. None. No one could be so deviously evil. So malicious.” The Maitre beckons to the younger Sea-Priest. “We need to see what she has done. You need to see this.”

“Maitre?”

But the Maitre is striding toward the flaming tent.

After a moment, jerClayne hastens after the older sorcerer.

Secca sat at the battered wooden table in the inn's public room, hoping that the hot spiced cider would quiet her stomach, and wondering how she was going to eat enough to be able to do sorcery to replace the wards before they left Stafaal for Narial—and the Ranuan ships she hoped were there.

The room was empty except for her and Alcaren. Wilten and Delcetta had eaten and left to check on the lancers, as had Delvor and Palian.

Beside Secca on the bench set against the wall sat Alcaren. His eyes flicked from her to the archway through which Richina entered, and then back to Secca.

Richina glanced from Easlon and Dymen, who stood on each side of the archway into the public room, to the couple at the oblong table.

Secca nodded for the younger sorceress to seat herself, not wanting to speak, and wishing that she felt better.

Richina slipped onto the bench on the other side of the table. “I hope I am not…but…last night…there was a disturbance of the harmonies…” Her voice trailed away.

Secca took another sip of the cider before speaking. “The wards.” She looked to Alcaren. “If you would.”

“My lady was most successful in setting up the wards,” Alcaren said, with but the faintest dryness in his voice. “The Sea-Priests attempted to cast sorcery from some distance against her. The wards worked. The cost on her was great. She worries that she will have to sing another spell to reset them before the Sea-Priests try once more.”

“What happened? How did they work?”

“Their sorcery rebounded upon them and burned them as they would have burned her,” Alcaren said. “They did not survive.”

“Oh…”

“Secca used a glass to see that last night. It was almost too much for her.”

“I'm better now,” Secca felt compelled to say. “Much better. Later…we can redo the wards.”

“You look tired, Lady Secca,” Richina said. “Must you? Now?”

Secca laughed, harshly, then coughed, shaking her head. She took another sip of the cider before speaking. “I did not sleep well, fearing that before I would wake more sorcery would be sung against us. I do not know that I can rest knowing that unless I sing a ward spell I could die at any moment.”

Richina tried to conceal a wince. “Surely there are few who could do such.”

“One is sufficient,” Secca pointed out.
What have you begun? Will every sorcerer or sorceress have to be warded? Or will you or the Sea-Priests end up trying to destroy anyone else who can use distance sorcery to kill? Just to stay alive?
Secca shook her head once more.

“It may be that sorceresses and sorcerers will have to keep their abilities hidden,” Alcaren mused.

“There will be even more shadowsinging,” Secca said slowly, “with sorcerers trying to find other sorcerers.”

“Could they not work together as have you and I or you and…Jolyn?” asked Richina.

“We can work together,” Secca agreed, “but would we wish to work for the ends of the Sea-Priests? Or they for our ends?”

“And what of the Ladies of the Shadows? Or the Council of Wei?” added Alcaren. “If they knew that sorcery existed that could destroy
sorcerers or sorceresses from so far away that they could not even know they were in danger?”

Richina looked blankly from Alcaren's almost-impassive face to Secca's bleak expression, then back to Alcaren before speaking. “Are there truly that many?”

“I would judge not,” Secca replied, “but I would not wager my life, or yours, or Alcaren's, on such. Would you?” She finished the hot cider and set the mug on the time-and-use-distressed wood of the table.

“Do you want more?” Alcaren pointed to her empty mug.

“Please.”

Alcaren raised his arm and gestured toward the servingwoman who watched from the doorway back to the kitchen. “Do you want some, Richina?”

The younger sorceress nodded.

Within moments, the rail-thin server stood by the table, her eyes darting between Richina and Secca.

“Two more of the hot ciders,” Alcaren said firmly. “What do you have suitable for breakfast?”

“Some of the dark bread. Cheese. Skillet potatoes. Might as have some mutton chops be fried up.”

Secca's stomach tightened at the thought of mutton chops.

“We'll have some of the bread, cheese, and potatoes,” Alcaren said. “No chops, though.”

“Good choice, ser. For the three of you, it'd be five coppers.”

Alcaren fumbled out a silver and showed it.

“Yes, ser.” With a smile, the servingwoman turned and headed to the kitchen.

“And we don't need more golds?” asked Secca.

“Denyst won't ask for any,” Alcaren said.

“If the ships come. If the Matriarch and the Exchange agree. We may get presented with an invoice for services,” Secca replied.

“If the ships come to Narial, it will be because the Matriarch has convinced the Exchange to fund them.” Alcaren paused before adding, “Or paid for them herself.”

“Could she do that?” asked Richina.

“Not very often,” admitted Alcaren. “She has some funds, but she is poorer than most rulers, perhaps poorer than Lady Secca.”

With two
thumps
, the server deposited another set of mugs on the table, along with two small loaves of dark bread side by side in a grass basket, and a wedge of cheese. “Be a bit for the other.” She looked at Alcaren expectantly.

He handed her the silver with a smile, and five coppers appeared on the table. Alcaren left them there.

Once the servingwoman was headed back to the kitchen, Alcaren immediately used his belt knife to slice off a large chunk of the bread, which he tendered to Secca. “Even if you don't do the sorcery now, you need to eat, and you need to eat more than you have been.” He handed a second chunk to Richina. “And you as well, lady.”

Both women exchanged knowing glances, but Secca took a mouthful of bread. So did Richina.

Alcaren took a smaller slice.

“You eat, too,” Secca commanded. “You get to sing the ward spell this time, and I'll support you.”

Alcaren grinned sheepishly, then shrugged. “As you command, my lady.”

“Best you not forget it.” Because she couldn't help smiling at his humorous tone, Secca elbowed her consort in the ribs.

Alcaren laughed, and, after a moment, so did the sorceresses.

West—Southwest of Nesalia, Neserea

A perfect semicircle of Sturinnese officers in heavy white riding jackets stands behind the Maitre under a clear but chill blue morning sky. Farther to the west, just barely on the horizon, are the white-covered trees of the Great Western Forest. Closer to the group, upon a square of freshly cut logs, lie two bodies wrapped in white canvas. To the right of the Maitre are a half-score of players. To the left are an equal number of drummers. All stand in precise and symmetrical order, as do the Sturinnese officers.

The Maitre lifts his right hand, and both drummers and players begin. After a bar, his bass-baritone voice follows the accompaniment with the spell.

The rhythm of the drums becomes more insistent with the closing lines of the ceremony.

The Maitre's last words are followed by a flaring spike of light that flashes skyward, and that light spike is accompanied by a crescendoing drumroll.

For a time, all the Sturinnese stand rigidly in silence before a blackened square of earth that bears no ashes, no remains, where only the wavering of heat lines against the cold day shows that anything has transpired.

The Maitre nods brusquely and turns, walking back toward the largest and most central tent in the encampment. When he reaches it, he steps inside and waits. He does not speak until the half-score of Sea-Priest sorcerers in white—all young-faced and clean-shaven—stand before him and inside.

“Some of you may wonder what occurred last night. You may also wonder why we are heading away from Esaria to engage the Mansuuran invaders.” The Maitre's voice is not loud, but it fills the large tent in the stillness of the early morning. “All this is part of a larger plan. It is one that we have labored years to accomplish. Tomorrow, after crossing the bridge at Tryve to the west, we will use sorcery to destroy the bridge, so that the Mansuuran forces must move toward Nesalia. We will take a few companies, along with those we acquired from the unfortunate Lord Belmar, and begin the return to Worlan, where we will be joined by the forces from the great fleet. The forces here will be reinforced by those from Dumar, along with a half-score of sorcerers coming with those forces. Those will be sufficient to destroy the Mansuurans without our aid.

“Once that task is accomplished, it is but seasons before the entire west of Liedwahr is ours.” The Maitre smiles. “Now…make your preparations to strike camp and ride.” Another brief pause follows. “I would like a word with Marshal jerLeng.”

A Sea-Priest in a lancer's uniform with eight-pointed gold stars on the collar of his white riding jacket steps forward as the other Sea-Priests
offer head bows before turning and filing out of the tent into the still-chill morning.

The Maitre remains silent until the tent is empty except for the two of them. “It is not quite that simple.”

“I thought as much, Maitre.”

“Almost, but not quite.”

“The Sorceress Protector of the East?”

The Maitre nods. “There is no one left, besides me, who could sing a spell against her from this distance.”

The other remains silent.

So does the Maitre.

Finally, the lancer officer pauses, clears his throat, and asks, “Why is this one sorceress so important to defeat? And, if she is, why not turn all the sorcerers and drummers here against her?”

“You do not ask why I do not confront her?” The Maitre beckons for jerLeng to come closer before he laughs, without mirth. “I had not thought she was so strong as she has become. Now, the risk is too great. We are close to equal in strength. You know that distance spells only work with one or two voices, and if two, they must be matched—as with jerHalin and jerEstafen. We have no matched voices remaining.”

“So…can you not focus your sorcery on her, as she did on Belmar?” An almost concealed edge of exasperation colors the lancer officer's voice.

“That was what those two we sent to the harmonies this morning did.” The Maitre gestures back toward the site of the ceremony. “Whatever she used is not a ward, but something different, and far more deadly. We have more voices, and in closer combat, as you know, a number of massed voices can overcome the greatest of sorceresses. That was how we destroyed the other sorceress, although Belmar did not realize that his spells were being aided, and that is how we must deal with the Sorceress Protector. She must be destroyed, but that is not certain unless we are closer to her. You must make sure that our forces here, and those coming from Dumar, understand your role. That is to destroy the Liedfuhr's forces and then to rejoin us as you can. If we do not hasten back northward, I fear that she will sail to the Bitter Sea and use sorcery on the fleet from the west.”

“They have sorcerers and drummers on board,” points out jerLeng.

“But none are experienced, not in sea and sorcery battles,” the Maitre replies evenly. “If we cannot halt her soon, she will turn all Liedwahr in the direction of the Ranuan bitches, and Lord Robero will let her do so, for he cannot stand against her. Indeed, no man in Liedwahr, save
Belmar, could have, and you see how he fared. She is not yet so powerful as she will be if we do not act. Once she is gone, Lord Robero will do as we wish.”

“I had thought…”

“He may indeed recall her to Defalk, but she is most willful, and we must not count on her obeying her lord. Not until she does. And if she disobeys, and we destroy her, well then, the good lord Robero is indebted to us.”

“But how will you destroy her?”

“I have tested her defenses. They would be difficult to penetrate, even if we could muster all the sorcerers we have here. But they take much energy from her. She cannot do great sorcery and hold those defenses. So we will destroy the bridge and weaken the Liedfuhr's forces as we can before leaving you and most of the lancers to finish them off. You will be reinforced, and you will be able to draw upon those sorcerers, while we will hasten to Worlan to deal with the sorceress when she arrives. With what I know, we will strike the moment she lowers her defenses to attack the fleet. Several of our younger sorcerers will follow her through the glass, and I will lead the rest in striking before she knows what we do.”

“What of the other sorceresses in Defalk?”

“The others we can wear down…or kill through poison, stealth, or golds.” The Maitre shakes his head. “This one…if we do not destroy her while we can, she will destroy us and all that Sturinn has built. That must not be, and it will not.” The Maitre's eyes blaze.

“We will do our part.”

“Good.” The Maitre's eyes fix on the marshal. “Good.”